The Return of Salazar Slytherin
by DanDanTheWritingFan
Summary: Harry was exactly five years old when he first dreamt of his old self and knew, on a basic level, of what it meant — when he first felt, and understood, that he was both Harry James Potter, of Number 4 Privet Drive, in 1985, and knew that he was also that other boy, in his dreams... Basically, this is my version of "Harry is Salazar" fanfiction. Reviews are welcomed :)


**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine...**

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 **THE RETURN OF SALAZAR SLYTHERIN**  
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 **1**

Harry was exactly five years old when he first dreamt of his old self and knew, on a basic level, of what it meant — when he first felt, and understood, that he was both Harry James Potter, of Number 4 Privet Drive, in 1985, and knew that he was also that other boy, in his dreams, who was once known as Arden Sallern, of the marsh lands, in 857, over a full millennia ago. He was exactly five years old, right down to the minute, when he first realised that. He knew, as if a part of him had aways known it, that although he had only been birthed years ago, he had also been born and raised in another time completely, in a land where life had seemed to be a lot easier, and yet far harder, than the life he was currently forced to live, now. Back when the only thing a person could really see where the great masses of green filled land that stretched from horizon to horizon, and the small huts that were built by hand, in a smattering of places, for the majority of the people to live in. He had once been born into a world, so much different than this one, where the dimmest and smallest stars could be seen shining brightly at night, where swords were strapped to the waists of men, and animal skins, alone, were kept to keep out the terrible wintry chill. Back in an easier, simpler time, when a persons skill with an arrow or a dagger could quite literally define whether a person lived or died the next coming winter. And back when a young boy could, at the very least, earn food or a couple of copper pieces by hauling hay, or simply run away from an abusive home and hide from unwanted relatives, as easily as a pig could be gutted.

It was those clear differences in this new "modern" world, those obvious changes, that he saw, noticed and thought on, which had Harry — or Arden, as he sometimes called himself since that night — admit that the majority of the things he once knew, once took for granted, were extremely altered in this new, rather strange time of technology, of large populations, and of randomly enforced schooling, that he all of sudden felt so very unaccustomed to, after that rather abrupt awakening, that dawning understanding of his dreams, on that late July night.

And wasn't it strange how everything had seemingly settled into his brain, after it? How he had suddenly felt more like his old adult self, of Arden and his many aliases, rather than the young child he technically was? How he seemed to remember, as if it was only the night before, the times and the styles that he had lived and died in, more so than the one he was currently birthed into.

Not, of course, that he honestly minded some of the more modern things about him, like the easy access to food and clean water, and the vast places of learning — and he supposed, when he thought about it logically, and once he managed to ignore the great many terrifying metal contraptions that seemingly popped up everywhere and had a person risking life and limb, just by crossing a tarred road, he decided the creation of transport was truly quite a fascinating thing, too. But the two former, for him… well, they were the best things, he quickly decided. Though, as a past teacher, he guessed he had to approve of the teachings in those schooling institutions, which catered for everyone, no matter the riches or the accolades — and especially because he even got to escape to one such schooling place, every five whole days out of the weekly seven, for six full hours. And, sure, although it really truly had nothing on the one he had helped create way back when, he still got to study there, from the ages of four through to what would be his eleventh year. He still got to re-learn how to read the new version of English, as tiring, as frustrating, and as time consuming as that was, and to re-learn the basics of arithmacy, before being encouraged to study the more intricate parts that had been discovered in the last thousand years. He was still taught, no matter the small spaces, about the worlds somewhat long new history, of music and of art, and of other things, too, like that odd thing called science — and wasn't that truly a marvel? Even the "biology" aspects, he had to admit, was just as amazing, for how in-depth the knowledge now was. For how easy it was for a person to transition onto healing (or, he supposed, assassination) from those vast details they had shared in his Year One class.

Not to mention, he also got a free meal everyday, with a desert of his choice, a carton of milk and a sweet satisfying fruit drink.

In fact, all in all, by the time he had turned six, and the year he'd taken to accept his old past and what was his new life was through, he'd long since decided that being coerced into that specific giant brick rectangle was probably one of the best things about his new life — particularly when he just remembered to ignore the many whinings of the other young children, the general foolishness of some of the sheep-like teachers, and continued on with his rather bemusing every day battle of correcting his new annoying blood cousin, and the boy's many clot-pole allies, who were still incorrectly under the assumption that they were far better than he or any of the other child in their play ground.

Of course, by the time that the early November of '86 had come around, Harry had even managed to trick several of those boys out of that rather hilarious delusion, and a few of the lot had even gone on to realise that brawn really had nothing on brains in certain situations (and that none of them, really, no matter what, had anything on him) and had began to alter their daily lives to actually study their school work.

 _A good lesson for them all to learn,_ Harry had thought, quite satisfied, as he watched them cautiously amused that first quiet week, and then the second and third, all the while feeling rather proud and almost hopeful for the type of people those specific three could become with the right type of guidance.

It seemed that Dudley (his cousin) was a bit of a lost cause, however, as he hadn't appeared to learn anything throughout the last year, which was a shame in one sense, but amusing for him in another — though to be fair, Harry was almost clapping at the lads near-constant version of revenge, even if it did only consist of "I'm telling Mum and Dad!" and always ultimately resulted in him, Harry, being locked up — at least, to the Dursley's knowledge — in "his" cupboard for various weeks at a time, for various slights.

It was a punishment, in truth, that Harry had come to expect and loathe, even if he did magic himself out and away these days, almost as much as he loathed them, the Dursley's, themselves. In fact, by the time the month of February of '87 had come around, those two had even managed to rival his last lot of parents for the near top spots of people he truly despised.

And wasn't that truly saying something, really?

They both _were_ very similar, though, Harry decided — eerily so, in truth. Both couples were extremely "normal", after all, and were deluded, petty, ignorant, had illusions of grandeur, and were close minded to the point of abuse. And those were just the most obvious immediate traits that sprang to his mind after every time he caught sight of them. They were even similar in personality traits, personal tastes, and likes and dislikes.

In all honesty, a part of him — the part that was always focusing on the pessimistic part of things — had to wonder if they were actually the _same_ people. The same conscious beings, the same souls, but with different bodies, just like him.

The only good thing that ever came out from that line of thought, though, was the idea that other people, actually people that he loved and cared for — still present tense — would be, or could be, reborn, too.

It was an idea, and a hope, he admitted, that quickly became an obsession in his head, as he thought about the possibility, that singular idea, very often. He thought about it as a lay in his cot at night, he thought about it as he learnt during the day, he thought about it as he plotted and planned, and he thought about it as he worked under the hot sun. He thought about it, honestly, all through the entirety of 1987, with nearly every other breath that he took, and thought about it, still, as the year came to an end.

He even, eventually, began to succumb to having thoughts about those few people who he had banished from his mind, completely, if only because of the vast emotional pain that those thoughts brought with them.

He realised, quickly enough, though, that as the time passed on, and the longer the memories he refused entrance wormed there way into the forefront of his mind, brilliantly and slyly, like the snake people always claimed him to be, the longer he thought of _them_ and the lives that they all had _before,_ the less it truly hurt to do so.

That was not to say, though, of course, that the thoughts completely ceased to cause him hurt; they didn't — he still felt it echo in his heart and in his chest, with every mental movement, as was his life. He just simply began believing, again, eventually, that with each and every almost tricked focused remembrance, with each small reminder of _that_ time, that it all began being worth it, _somehow_.

And it was better, he decided, in those early days of '88, to face those memories now, then doing so later on, once he hypothetically met one of them and it tore him apart, or, far more likely, when he finally got through the many books on the new laws, and collected enough evidence to land the Dursley's into those new odd types of jail cells, so he could simply make his way to Scotland, conscious free, to see if Hogh-wards — his once upon a time school — still stood.

For that, he knew, would definitely cause the difficult memories to all but smack him in the face.

He still would have gone there a lot sooner, though, in truth, even with that knowledge, but he felt he owed it to Dudley — at least, a little bit — as the only decent adult in the household, to save the rest of his life, and possibly his children's, by taking him away from those horrid people — even if his cousin absolutely hated him for it, after the fact.

It was in the later days of April '88 that Harry finally succeeded on that front, and he found himself getting placed into "St Mary's Home for Boys", along with a stunned, near-catatonic wet faced Dudley, after evidence had suddenly presented itself to the Surrey Police Department, in the form of two hundred and thirty-three photos and a precise note with a list of laws broken, stabled securely to top of the lot.

Harry debated, a month later, when he had read the article that had stated about a whole estate seemingly ignoring the neglect and abuse of a seven year old, whether he had gone a bit overboard with the "clear cut" case, but decided not a minute letter that he hadn't — he had read up on a lot of the new law system, after all, and had found that many cases had been simply thrown out due to lack of evidence. Or worse, because they simply had the funds to pay people off.

As it was, however, the Dursley's didn't even go to trail. They had been arrested by two disgusted looking police officers on the 23rd, shown the evidence by the 25th, and had apparently near immediately pleaded guilty on the charges of child neglect and child abuse. Harry sincerely doubted that Vernon went down _that_ easy, but he wasn't really bothered, as long as he _did_ go down. Which he had. They both had. And Harry had thoroughly enjoyed the looks on both of their faces as they did.

The only problem Harry had after that, before he could do whatever he pleased, was what, exactly, was he supposed to do now with Dudley Dursley? For on the one hand, he could simply take off and just leave him there, as he has originally planned, with the very obvious looking adults that actually could care for him easily, as he, Harry, was technically only a seven year old, and would have to steal their way to survival. But, on the other hand, his brain pointed out, he was actually a hundred and twenty-nine years old, and felt somewhat despicable even thinking of turning his back on any child, never mind one that was of his own blood, to boot.

Dudley, naturally, gave him a lot of incentive, both ways, and it was least of all because the boy seemed to hover around him, terrified of other people, one second, and then wanted nothing to do with him, another. He imagined that from a seven year old perspective he was probably doing what was normal, as he was the only person the boy knew, and therefore, that was better than those he didn't, but he was also the person who had landed his parents — even if it was their own fault — in jail, which meant he was someone to hate.

The whole month of May was then spent agonising over the decision, to leave him or not to leave him, as he watched the boy sit silently for weeks, only occasionally breaking out of his horrified trance to say that it was Harry's fault or to demand that he get some chocolate off of the carers, before bursting in to loud, sometimes fake, tears.

It was only after an old man, practically vibrating with power, came into the group home, one perfectly sunny day, appearing all benevolent — because who ever looks that kind and truly is? Harry had thought, shrewdly — and spoke to their head matron about them both, _by name,_ that he finally decided to simply haul Dudley up, with bribes of Mars bars' and Diary Milks', and magically popped them both back to the park near Privet Drive, in the tree line, while he mentally scrapped plans A through to E, as they were apparently no longer anonymous, and jumped immediately to H.

 _So, now I have a ward._ He thought, fiercely and annoyed, wondering who, exactly, the old man was, and why, how and where he had heard of them.

Dudley, of course, had thrown up — thankfully, not over him — as they'd landed that day, and had demanded, as anyone would do, what he'd done, before Harry had told him, quite short temperedly, to shut up. He had regretted it, perhaps obviously, almost a millisecond later, however, when Dudley burst, yet again, into floods of tears, and it took him fourteen whole minutes and four of his bribe bars to settle him, and that was only until they reached London City Center, where the boy promptly demanded a sit down break and a happy meal from McDonalds, and then cried some more, at Harry's refusal.

Which was why, in a long roundabout way, after three very _very_ long hours, when he finally managed to gain a fairly large stolen waterproof tent, two sleeping bags, a brilliant map of the UK and three bottles of water, he had them living ("But _why_ do we have to?!" Dudley had wailed.) in a large empty field, that he had once known well as a forest as a lad, and decided they would stay there as long as necessary.

The next month, for him, at least, went by a little more quietly, if quite frustrating and infuriating, too. Mainly, perhaps, because Harry — Arden, he decided, since Harry James Potter was now widely known — had had to explain, repeatedly, so Dudley could understand, all he knew about his _transporting_ skills, as well as keeping up with their other studies and making up games, so that Dudley didn't get overly bored and start whining non stop, while he set up temporary blood rune wards, and slowly manipulated Dudley into being a semi-decent behaving child.

He also, of course, had to make sure that the lad knew that he could go back to the group home, if he really wanted to, and then had to educate Dudley, once he decided (and then re-decided, every other day) that he wanted to stay for sure, about where not to go, what _not_ to eat, how not to scare the animals, and how to not get killed, all the while attempting to get them up, albeit very slowly, to Scotland, without getting caught on camera, since there had been an Amber Alert gone out for them.

It was all quite headache inducing, if Arden was honest.

July, on the other hand, he found, was a much _much_ better month all the way around, and would always go down as such in the history of his new second life.

Because, although it took weeks and countless breaks, no small amount of complaining, and quite a lot of multilingual swearing on his part, he was eventually able to say, with a wide delighted smile, as he spotted a familiar outline of thick dotted trees, in the far distance, that, "That, right there," pointing it out to the fairly uninterested, panting Dudley, "is the edge of the outer northern side of Forest of the Forbidden, and it is going to be where we will live from now on, should the castle no longer stand."

But then, alas, much to his infinite satisfaction and joy, he found out not even hours later, as they entered the forest line, by a small wandering herd of glorious not-at-all-been-eradicated centaurs, that the castle — _their, his,_ castle — most definitely still stood.

And as the magical school it was made as, no less.

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 **AN: Reviews are very much welcomed :)**


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